I've had the flu. And I've been sad.

Cough. Cough-cough. Hack. Hack-hack. Nose blow, nose blow, nose blow...

Such has been my routine for almost two weeks now. The flu never comes at a good time. But it came at an especially bad time for this harpist-singer.

I had to play at a wedding last Friday. Everything was fine until I had a coughing fit during the psalm, but the guests sang on and I managed to play to the end. The sweet bride told me everything was still beautiful. Oh, how nice.

I had a booth at the Mankato Bridal Show last Saturday. Handed out hundreds of fliers and business cards to hundreds of brides, played Canon in D for hours on end.

And then, on Monday, I played at the funeral of my friend Lisa, who "went to Heaven" as her mother told me, last Wednesday. I was so worried that I'd not be able to sing How Great Thou Art and O Holy Night, as Lisa requested. I was terrorized by the memory of that coughing fit at that wedding last Friday. My voice had to hold out. I had to make it through, for Lisa and her family. I had to.

So I did lots of gentle practicing in the days leading up to the funeral. Got lots of rest, drank gallons and gallons of tea, took everything my wonderful pharmacist put in my cart.

Harry helped with the practicing. Oh, good kitty.

I decided I would be just fine. Everything would be fine. My voice would be fine, I would play just fine. And everything was coming along just...fine...

...until Lisa's mom brought this over to my house 

the day before the funeral.

It's a gift basket Lisa got for me at a benefit four days before she died. She'd texted me allllll day long about getting me one, I texted back with "no, you don't have to do that," she texted back with, "yes, I'm going to anyway." And she did. It wasn't even noon when Lisa's mom dropped it off. I popped the cork anyway and poured a glass to honor Lisa and to stop the tears that I knew would flow and stuff me up and cause a coughing fit. 

The funeral on Monday WAS fine. My voice did hold out. My harp sang and put forth that beauty and healing that only it can do. I felt it change the atmosphere in the church. I didn't cough. I didn't cry. I did my job. I did it. But I've been so sad ever since. At the loss of Lisa. At the loss of a friend. At the unfairness and ugliness of cancer. All of it. 

But Harry came to the rescue again. 

He flapped his tail right into my face the night of the funeral

and he kept it there for an hour. 

Oh, good kitty.

Oh, goodbye, Lisa. I'll miss you, my friend.

Christmas knitting

Somehow...magically, miraculously...I carved out some hours from my holiday playing to knit some things for my Mom. I always like to do  something special and handmade for Christmas for her. And this year it was this:

A little knitted and felted and needle felted and beaded purse.

All pointy and cute and asymmetrical and fairy-like for my Mom,

who loves all things fairy.

Knitting to felt (or full, I guess it's technically called, but felt sounds nicer) is a crazy process. You start out with a big, floppy, shapeless piece of knitted fabric...

(looks like a pair of stretched-out socks, doesn't it?)

...and then you put it in the washing machine on hot and cold and spin and voila...

...you get this thick, lovely, wonderful piece of fabric!

Before I stitched it together, I needle felted on some designs and added some beads. I love needle felting. It's a good thing to do when you need to get out some frustrations - it's a lot of stabbing with a sharp needle but with lovely results.

 A close-up of the results. LOVE.

I have to give credit where credit is due, however...my friend Melinda raised the Icelandic sheep that grew the wool that was spun into the yarn I used to knit this lovely piece. You can find out more about Melinda's yarn on her etsy page: http://www.etsy.com/shop/WellspringWoolens

 And I did have some design help from SamTheCat.

Thanks for choosing that green roving, kitty.

It was perfect.

Now I'm on to more knitting - with some beautiful yellow yarn from Ireland (that I brought back from my last trip to Dingle). I'll keep you posted on the progress of that.

Ah, January. I love the knitting breaks you offer between writing bursts!

I'm back.

Back from my blogging break. And I needed one, as my last post indicated. Thank you all for your lovely, supportive comments and offers of help and even for sending flowers. The day I outlined in the post wasn’t even unusual – there were several like it and many that weren’t quite that busy, but pretty close.

I ended up a very tired kitten.

I should probably knock on wood, but I daresay that things have calmed down in the busy-ness realm and also in the way I’m approaching the busy-ness. That’s all we really can do, isn’t it? Change our approach and our perception?

So I’ve decided to take a sabbatical. A sabbatical from constant worry. A sabbatical from feeling like I have to constantly produce new writing, new music, new ideas, new art to be worthy. A sabbatical from always-full to-do lists. I’ve decided to really prioritize what NEEDS-needs to be done right now vs. everything that just needs to be done. There’s a big difference, I realized. Try it sometime and see what happens in the space of a day.

It’s working already. Now, when Ethel’s microwave goes on the fritz and she’s very upset and worried, going out to get her a new one at 9:00 p.m. doesn’t put me over the edge because I haven’t filled up my day with a thousand things not on the priority list.

Now, when I feel all guilty for not posting to my blog, I know that I'm not abandoning all you wonderful ones in my social network because I'm still reading your posts and putting in my comments and encouragement. But producing a post three times a week is not on the priority list.

Now, when I look out my kitchen window and see the dried up, overgrown garden, I don’t desperately try to find two days to get it cleaned off before winter because it’s not going anywhere and it can wait until spring and it’s just not on the priority list.

And now, when I’m deep in the dreaming and rehearsing and promoting for my 10th Annual Holiday Concert (November 24…stay tuned for details), I’m not worrying about not writing and constantly producing in that area of my life for a while because it’s not on the priority list.

On the priority list:
...family
...Ethel (who’s like family, really)
...good friends
...rest

...and preparing in all ways for my 10th Annual Holiday Concert. 

I really hope you’ll mark your calendars and join me!

And should another day come like the one in the previous post (as it very well could because this is life, after all), I’m planning to be better able to breeze through, protecting my neighborhood and helping my friends without ending up an exhausted, crying, beer-drinking girl on the couch covered in cats. ’Cuz that’s a sight neither you nor I really ever want to see again, I’m sure.

Thanks for sticking with me. And please let me know what’s on your priority list these days. Let’s support each other!

THEN...

My official job: cat warmer.

Their official job: Amy calmer.

I know it's been more than a week since I said I would update my blog. But do you ever get so overwhelmed by the beauty, pain and wonder of life that you just can't possibly distill it all into a couple of blog posts? Even if you have an English degree with a concentration in writing and have been a professional writer for 20 years? And even if you haven't?

Like - how do you do this, for example, then distill it, take photos of it, and then blog about it…

One night last week, all I wanted to do was take a long walk, take a long bath and then relax afterward with my blog. I'd written copy at work for 7 and a half hours straight. I felt cross-eyed and drained.

BUT - when I got home I noticed that Ethel's back patio was covered in leaves and she hates it when it's covered in leaves and she thinks she should rake it herself (you're 93 and use a walker - yeah, Ethel, why don't you just go out and rake…). So I raked.

THEN I talked Ethel into letting me take her garbage and recycling to the curb.

THEN Ethel told me to fill her birdbath. And take down the tomato cage. And water the hydrangea. And get rid of her scruffy geranium plant. So I did. (I love Ethel.)

THEN I started on my walk. A block and a half down, I saw my friend come tearing out of her house yelling for her 2-year-old son. She looked panicked. I ran over and helped her look for him. We found him right away. He was hiding behind the neighbor's garage, playing. Whew.

THEN a few blocks later a nice little cat ran toward me and wanted to be petted. So I did. THEN it started to follow me home. I talked with a variety of neighbors about who it belonged to. Finally found its owner. It's well taken care of, just likes to roam and is very friendly. And sooo cute…(I will not take another cat home. I will not take another cat home. I will not…)

THEN on my way home from the walk, another neighbor called and sounded frantic and asked me to help get her two kittens out of the basement ceiling - they got up there but couldn't get down. So I did.

The night was so apparently not about me and my walk and my bath. That's ok. Amy Kortuem, Neighborhood Caretaker to the rescue. It's a good job to have.

THEN I finally got home. I was running the bath water when I remembered a friend's book release party that night. I had only 30 minutes to get there, so I raced through my bath and went to the book party. My friend was was out of books by theme I got there, that's how well it went. I'm so happy for him.

THEN my good friend from high school texted me that she was stopping chemo and getting ready to move to hospice. Would I play "How Great Thou Art" at her funeral? Of course I will. (Oh, my heart.) And would I meet her next week at the local bar to talk about funeral music? Of course I will. (If you knew my friend, you'd know how perfectly "her" this is.)

THEN I came home and sat on my front step and stared out into the night. A friend came over while I was sitting there staring. I told her about everything, this whole list, as I stared.

"Wow, what a weekend," she said.
"No, it all happened tonight, since 5:00 p.m.," I said.
She didn't say anything more. Only looked at me. Then she offered me a beer she had in her purse. Seriously, if you have a day like that, you need people to offer you beer from their purses.

So my friends, I haven't been blogging. Because I've had many days like this in the past couple of weeks. And in between I've played for weddings and 25th anniversary events and arts magazine launches and met with my friend about her funeral music and…I'll tell you all about them. Sometime. Soon. I promise.

But right now, it seems that it's more important to take care of my neighborhood, my family, my Ethel, myself. I need a little couch time with cats when I take off my Amy Kortuem Neighborhood Caretaker cape. I just might need another week. Or so. Please don't give up on me! Promise?

There’s always one thing

One thing that I just can’t get to in the course of a week, that is.

Does that ever happen to you? Like...

~ The house might be clean, but you just can’t make yourself empty the dishwasher.
~ The dishes might all be clean and put away, but you cannot, physically cannot, manage to fold the laundry.
~ The laundry might be all fresh-smelling and perfectly folded (fitted sheets in a perfect square? Mine are, thanks to being the daughter of Karen Kortuem, the Home Ec major), but vacuuming up the Harry hair (OK, this might not apply to you) floating around the floors would put you over the edge.

(Cats. Waiting for me to vacuum...)

And how do you handle it all? Or don’t you and then you just forgive yourself?

Please, please tell me!

Obviously, the thing this week for me was blogging. (Actually, there have been some towels languishing in the dryer, waiting to be folded, too, but anyway…)

And the saddest thing is that there’s really so much I want to talk about, to tell you, to share.

Like...

~ A wedding that took place 10 minutes into the official start of autumn.
~ A funeral and wedding in one day that both had big confusion about the same song (weird!).
~ A big epiphany I had about my outlook on life (I’ll tell you and you’ll probably say “duh!” but still…)
~ The latest in the “Do you play Canon in D?” saga
~ Cat pictures. Because they’re cold lately and don’t have full winter coats and are oh-so-snuggly and cute.

So. I haven’t disappeared. And now that the big freelance project I’ve been working on is (almost) done, the two-harp-playing-event weekends have turned to one-harp-playing-event weekends, I’ve vacuumed and I’ve actually unloaded the dishwasher, it’s time to blog again.

Please, stop in next week. I promise we'll get caught up then!

Harry gets a bath

It's not what I wanted to do Saturday. That morning, I'd played my harp at a funeral. In the afternoon, I played for a wedding. I was tired and looking forward to some lunch and a nice long nap, maybe going for a run and then taking a bath.

Then Harry escaped and decided to roll in the dusty dirt of the garden.

Remember, he's an all-white cat.

Bad kitty.

Bad, bad, bad kitty.

Very, very bad kitty.

I took Harry back outside to try to brush him off, but it only made things worse and ground all the dirt deeper into his fluffiness. I didn't want to. But I had no choice. I shut the bathroom door, filled up my beautiful white claw foot tub with warm water and dunked Harry in it. After a few dramatic escape attempts and giving me the dirtiest looks ever, he was pretty good. I lathered him up with some French-milled natural soap from Provence that he loves to lick when I forget to cover the soap dish (so I figured it would be safe for him to be bathed in it). He shook and splashed and meowed pitifully.

Have you ever seen anything so pathetic?

He was mighty embarrassed. 

I spent the next 45 minutes trying to dry him off so he wouldn't get the entire house wet.

He hated it.

By the time we were done, I was hot and sweaty and covered in dust myself. I skipped the lunch and the nap and the run and just went straight for the bath myself. A long, hot, soaking bath. With French-milled soap from Provence. And a glass of wine. And a still-wet Harry hiding behind the toilet. 

 An hour or so later, he was back to his beautiful self.

He smelled pretty good, too.

He even hopped onto my lap to give me kisses. I think he forgives me.

The thanks I get

Jingle Belle likes to sit on the back of the couch and survey her domain. She's safe there, and out of the way of Harry and Sam's boy-cat antics.

The nest I've had there for her was pretty ragged. Clawed up, full of holes, covered in hair, kind of stinky, not cushiony anymore. So I got her a new one last week - all fuzzy fleece and soft, so soft.

And this is the thanks I got.

I picked her up and put her in the new nest thinking she'd turn around a few times, do some kneading and snuggle right in. But she popped out of it like it was on fire and hid her face in the cushions of the couch. Tail-end toward me. No amount of coaxing could get her into the nest. After a day or so I started searching for the receipt to return it.

Then I walked by and saw this.

And this.

Oh yeah. Belle and the new nest are one.

On her own time.

OK, little black cat...

Let me get my pointy hat and we'll go for a ride.

Harp regulation - experience it for yourself

Didn't get enough harp regulation talk? Yeah, I knew you'd want more. Here's a little video to let you know what it's like. This much excitement for, oh, about an hour and a half. (Notice Sam's ears twitching. That cat has perfect pitch.)

The scintillating dialogue at the end...

Dan: "No more of that buzz."

Me: "Yay!"

Exciting times. You'll all want to come over next time Dan comes to town, won't you?

Harp regulation

I told my friends I couldn't meet them a few Tuesday nights ago because the harp needed a regulation and my wonderful harp regulator, Dan McGinley, was coming from Chicago on a harp-fixing road tour and could make a stop in North Mankato that night.

"Okay," my friends said. Big pause. Then: "Ummm...what's a harp regulation?" Good question. There's a lot of mystery surrounding harps, harpists, harp music, harp care.

Some of it's pretty straightforward.
1. Harps are big and delicate and heavy. They make gorgeous music. They're beautiful. They're expensive. It takes a lot of practice to play one.
2. Harpists are delicate, too. Sometimes their backs and arms hurt. A lot. But they have strong hands. And nerves. And big biceps.
3. Harp music looks just like keyboard music. But you can't expect a harp to sound like a piano. Or a pipe organ. Or a string quartet, for that matter...

But harp care...well, that's the most mysterious part. I can tune mine and change strings no problem. I can perform minor repairs like putting the base frame bolt back in the bottom of the harp with a major amount of hysteria. (Read all about it here.) But when it comes to checking the pedals and the rods and the tuning pins and the bridge pins and the pedal discs...yeah, that's beyond me.

And that's pretty much why I'll cancel everything when Dan comes through town. We'll spend several hours together, me asking a thousand questions and him answering every single one of them. He's really the only person who's interested in some of the most deeply important things in my life. Like why the 3rd octave A has a kind of...whooshing...sound to it. Why the F pedal feels...sticky...sometimes. Why that...sound...comes from the back of the harp when I play in flats. You know. Not everybody is interested in that stuff.

So here goes, a documentation of what a harp regulation entails. With highly technical commentary. For those of you who are just DYING to know...

The ONLY time you should ever see a harp in this position. Ever. 

"Oh no," Harry is thinking. "You're not gonna freak out like you did 

when you had to put the harp in this position and fix it yourself, are you?"

There's some disturbing sounding scraping involved around the pedals.

But it's ok. Dan knows what he's doing.

There are brand new felts added (the red things) 

so the pedals don't make banging noises when they're moved.

Then there are new pedal cushiony thingeys added to...cushion the pedals.

Jingle Belle checks to make sure there are no snacks in Dan's tool bag.

Nope, no snacks.

Then comes time for the "real" regulating. 

(The only person who can lift the harp like that and not get screamed at? Dan.)

There's a lot of playing a string, tweaking, playing a string, tweaking.

Tweeeeeeeeeaking. Tweak. Tweak. Tweak.

This snazzy regulator machine thingy lights up and makes some noises 

and tells Dan what's going on with the harp.

Sam doesn't listen to Jingle Belle about there being no snacks in Dan's tool bag.

Dan checks every string in every position - sharp, natural, flat. Over and over.

Tiny little screwdriver at the ready.

Yep, that one sounds a little buzzy.

Harry takes a nap on some of Dan's harp strings 

(he's used to that kind of thing cluttering up his resting spots).

Sam takes a nap on me while I sit next to the harp. 

He listens patiently while Dan and I say intelligent things to each other like 

"Hmmm..." "Ewwww..." "Ugh..." "Wow..." and "Nice" while Dan works the strings.

And it's done. The harp sounds crisp and clear. The whooshy A string is solid. The F pedal is smooth. The mystery sound from the back of the harp is banished. I play "Greensleeves" (the first song I ever learned on a harp, so my ear is tuned into how things should sound) and all is well.

Dan packed up all his equipment and headed out, planning to drive all the way to Fargo that night. I straightened up the living room, let Jingle Belle play with an old harp string Dan left for her and then sat down for a little private concert. Just me and the cats and a perfectly in tune harp. I almost hate to take it out again after that. But it's what this harp is for - making beautiful music for people all over the place. And when Dan comes through again, I'll clear my calendar.

Blarney Woollen Mills made a delivery mistake!

The purple sweater and a few other wonderful items I bought at Blarney Woollen Mills in Blarney, Ireland, finally arrived. They offered free shipping to the U.S. if you spent a certain amount (great reason to add that complicated cable knit wrap-like-vest-thingey, which Mom called a "boob warmer", to my order at the last minute). So I actually saved money, really, if you think about it long enough. And it certainly saved room in my suitcase.

I unpacked the sweater and the few other things and the "boob warmer" and held them to the light, admiring the knit patterns. Held them to my face to breathe in the woolly Irish smell of the yarn. Then I turned around when I heard some rustling and thumping and saw this in the box:

Wait a minute, I didn't buy a CAT in Blarney!

Oh no! What am I going to do? Should I send him back???

It's going to be 95 degrees today...

...and at 6:30 a.m., Harry had already assumed the position in front of the fan.

With all those hairs, Harry doesn't move much on a day like today. Which is expected to reach 95 degrees with high, high humidity. The heat index could make it feel like over 105. Yuck.

Wait, did I just say "cat chow?" Harry can always move for that.

Jingle Belle loves harp music

Not.

At least not right now, when it's time for cat chow.

Ireland: home again

I'm back. I think. The trip home was long. The flight was tummy-heavingly bumpy. Suitcases were heavy. Vacation was over. Jet lag has settled into my foggy brain and it's hard to tell what time it really is. Driving to the grocery store was an adventure - I wasn't sure which side of the car or road I should be on.

And while it's always good to get away, it's still good to get home. To my own bed (which my wonderfully amazing house-and-cat-sitter had made up with clean sheets...ahhh), my own huge clawfoot cast iron bathtub (double-ahhh) and to my kitties.

All of them jumped onto my suitcase within 5 minutes of my arrival home to tell me, "You're staying put for a while, Lady."

I still have a few more Ireland posts brewing, if you'd like to see photos and hear a couple of tales. Watch for them this week...once the jet lag fogginess lifts. Thanks for following along on this trip with me!

As close as they'll get to being outside cats

A warm and sunny afternoon, the windows open, the cats pressed up against the window screens soaking in the rays and the breeze.

Sammy, gazing down at the garden.

Jingle Belle, in the window over the bathtub.

Harry, really wanting to bust through the screen and run to the nearest

muddy dirt pile and roll around.

Ah, the life of inside cats. Longing to be outside. But not long after this, each one snuggled up in a cat bed or on the couch and napped the rest of the afternoon away.